HADUK
by IFFTinky
Summary: Harming And Doing Unneccesary Killing. A humorus take on the spy vs criminal mastermind, much like the concept of Evil Genius


Remi-Luc Molyneux is a French born superhero who saves people (French people are preferable) round the world through a mix of sheer luck, bad personal hygiene and just possibly a few well-aimed escargot! He earned the nickname "Mad Molyneux " as he once ran through college wearing nothing but a pair of the Headmistresses knickers over his head, well he received many nicknames for that act but "Mad" was one of the nicer ones. Vive la France!

His arch-nemesis is Professor Chiamaka Masozi, Prof Masozi was a child-genius who had a solid grasp of alchemy and biology before she even left primary school . However things took a turn for the worse when Masozi was kicked out of her school for creating an addictive drug, which she tested and refined production for by adding it to the food available from the tuck shop. Although the rocketing profits helped the school to buy that fancy Italian Mocha-Coffee maker the staff had been asking for all year! Believing the world had been unfair to her, she left school and taught herself, in her spare time she is the Evil Genius behind a terror organisation known as H.A.D.U.K. (Harming And Doing Unnecessary Killing)

Lightning flashed and thunder boomed across the vast Malaw plains that the Masozi family had ruled for generations. The Masozi family could trace their ancestors all the way back to the Buntu tribes that travelled south through Africa, starting small colonies as they went. This particular colony had grown to be Zomba, a mish-mash of African history and British-Colonial integration, no place moreso perhaps than the Sir Harry Johnston International Primary School. A very British institution, mostly attended by Malawian students.  
One Malawian student in particular was sitting quietly on a chair, staring out at the lightning outside, her eyes were reflecting each bolt and her grin widening with each clap of thunder. Her lips trembled ever so slightly as she whispered to herself.

"A megawatt for every metre, a return stroke of 100 kiloamps, a peak power output of a terawatt and a temperature of 20,000 degrees. All within 30 microseconds!"

"Chiamaka! Do you have something to add to the classes discussion on nouns?" All the teachers at Sir Harry's were unimpressed with Chiamaka's level of attention in class.

"Is that simple nouns, miss? Or compound nouns?"

"Oooh look everyone, isn't Chiamaka very clever?" If only the poor supply teacher wasn't new enough to not know what a hole she was digging for herself. "Maybe you'd like to tell all the boys and girls the difference?"

"Well miss, A simple noun consists of a single root word, or lexeme if you'd rather, which can then have prefixes or suffixes to create more complex nouns. Then compound nouns, well they are nouns that consist of more than one root word. They can be classified into endocentric, exocentric, copulative and appositional subtypes."

The teacher's eyes glazed over as the acute description offered by Chiamaka conflicted with the belief of what a 6 year old should know. As always, in the situations where teachers are unsure of how to deal with a children, she relied on shouting. "Detention!"

It was this event that finally broke the camel's back, Chiamaka had finally taken all she could. Turning her back on state education, she used her family's wealth to fund a private tutor and eventually ended up at a school for gifted children in England. It was here she met Mr James, a school tutor in psychology who made a little profit on the side in confidence scams. Thus Chiamaka Masozi graduated from the school as Professor Masozi, part-time further education student and part-time head of an evil organisation known as HADUK.

The clear-blue sea swelled around the sides of the luxury yacht, the birds in the sky were squawking and fish were gathering around the hull pecking at the algae that grew there, all things considered it was a perfect setting but Mboso did not care for it. The personal guard of Professor Masozi had only one thing to worry about and she was enough. He had always had a simple life before his current vocation and that meant that so long as he had somewhere to sleep and food to eat he was content. The Professor trusted Mboso implicitly, he was privy to all her greatest plans and achievements, not that he understood them nor did he really care, he just did his job...very well. In fact he would've been standing guard down below at the side of his mistress if it wasn't for the fact, he took another mouthful of strawberry ice cream, that it was his lunch-hour.

Below deck, was the complete opposite to the calm and serenity of above. The Professor's henchmen were dashing from place to place, making preparations for the docking of the ship at the island that would become the new H.A.D.U.K. stronghold. There had recently been a gathering of the "Henchmen Have Rights" representatives which debated whether the plain yellow unisex jumpsuits removed the individuality of their members, however, the vote whether to change the uniform was refused as there was a unanimous vote against the motion...well all those who said "aye" were thrown overboard on the Professors orders. Since then, work-related performance indicators were through the roof.

At the rear of the boat's interior there seemed to be a collection of rooms that was free of noise and fuss, the workers avoided entering the corridor that lead there as if the tiles in the floor were electrified. It was in this room that Chiamaka Masozi schemed her schemes, planned her plans and played in her doll's house. Currently she was curled up in a big fluffy armchair with a mug of cocoa and her favourite teddy, Pixie. Sitting opposite and uncomfortably close (for them) was her three advisers; Mr Johns, Mr James and Mr Jones.

"Are we there yet?" Squeaked Masozi "No." Was the simple and unanimous reply from all three men, the dead-bored sound of people who have answered the same question with the same reply for days, except in this case it was months.

"But we have been on the sea for squillions of years! Pixie wants to get on dry land again. Pixie gets what she wants!" The last bit was said with such an edge it could have carved carved steel in two.

Mr Jones rose from his seat and moved to kneel in front of the Professor, he took her little pudgy hand in his and said very soothingly. "Professor, why don't I put Pixie to bed while you eat your tea? You must be hungry after all that playtime this morning, you made three new strains of anthrax all by yourself!"

Forty-five minutes later, the legs of Mr Jones was all that was visible of the advisor as he sat reading the paper again, being at sea for 7 months with no access to a new newspaper had meant that he could recite the whole tabloid from memory but still, he found it relaxing. Masozi was chasing a wild piece of sweetcorn round her plate with a fork. The clang, clang, clang of the fork repeatedly stabbing the plate and not the sweetcorn was the only noise in the room.

"Are we there yet?"

"No..." He didn't even look up.

Mr Jones finished reading the paper, again, and turned his attention to one of the many portholes dotted along the far wall. He swung it wide open and took to enjoying his evening cigar. It was a marvel how the Professor had refined a process to turn every-day seaweed into a pleasantly smokable tobacco, he exhaled the slightly green smoke, calmed by the tap tap tapping of the Professor still chasing that elusive sweet corn piece.

"Are we there yet?"

"No..."

Back above deck, Mboso was just draining the last glass, oblivious to the deep cherry-red colour of the setting sun caressing the calm sea and making up one of the most beautiful sights the world has known. He did however pick up the miniscule, unscheduled creaking sound made by the communications satellite as it spun 4 degrees clockwise. He scowled at the interruption and, placing his knife back in its sheath, without even noticing he had drawn it, made a move toward the open hatch intent on informing the Professor. It was getting late in the day, and the Professor would be part of the way into her bedtime story, but he was sure she would want to know.

Mr James was rudely awoken by the Professor jumping up and down on his bed, evidently something of interest had happened.

"Mr James! Mr James, a henchman told me we've seen land! We'll be docking soon! Come on, get up! We gotta make a sandcastle while the tide is out!"

Sometimes Mr James wondered if behind that 3 feet of childhood really did lurk the most amazing and possibly dangerous mind to ever exist. However his thoughts were derailed by Pixie the teddy bear as she was hammered into his face to make him fully wake up.

The sand that greeted the party as they stepped onto the baking-hot beach was almost white, aside from the odd crab trail there was not a mark on it. A few hundred yards from the beach the grass began, which receded into a wooded area. Just what the Professor needed to begin the construction of her new production facility, the last one, built into the caverns of an inactive volcano were just too stuffy...plus the TV reception was terrible!  
As expected, Mboso was the first to step foot off the boat. His spear outstretched in his hand, swinging from side to side almost as if it was looking for threats for him. After a few tentative steps forward he paused and bade for the rest of the party to come ashore. Mboso did not like using a guns, he much preferred to use his custom-made spear, it had a 5 foot shaft made from the White Wax tree that grows only in China, the guard appreciated that it was an exaggerated gesture and not exactly in keeping with the history of his tribe and his African ancestry but then neither was working for a child-genius. Atop was the spear-tip, which, unlike the shaft that Mboso admitted wasn't the usual "spearish" choice, handily was spear-tip shaped enough to not break the generalism people used when deciding if something looked like a spear or not.

"ooh, its lovely and warm! Lemme see the plans!"

Mr James, produced a blueprint from his backpack and passed it to the Professor.

"It'll be the bestest castle ever! I think the pony stables should be here..."

Elsewhere, a very worried-looking man was flicking his widened eyes between four screens, all but one now showing static. He asked his sub-ordinate to replay the last few seconds back as both could not believe what just happened. They watched three of the highest trained assassins they had stalking the Professors bodyguard through the forests on the island, then, in a blur of spear-based combat he killed all three.

Finally the man regained his composure, turning to the radio operator he said "Get me a line to the White House!"

As Mboso approached his employer, he could hear Mr Jones trying to persuade the professor that a chocolate front door was not a viable option, even though there was one in that story he read her last night.  
The group fell silent as the bodyguard pushed past them to bend down and whisper in the ear of the Professor. the girl seemed to consider his words...the look of puzzlement scrunched up her face.

"Mr James, Mr Jones, I wanna chat!" The professor motioned with her hand and skipped a few meters away from the party.

The advisors looked puzzled but moved to follow her regardless.

Mr Johns began to sweat. Why was he being left out of this discussion? Why did Mr James and Mr Jones looks so relived to be away from him? Why...he paused as he felt something brush his neck, something quite pointy in fact - admittedly the shaft of the spear in Mboso's hands was not the usual "spearish" choice, but the tip was definitely good enough to fall within the generism of being a spear.  
He turned his head to the side, you could forgive Mr Johns for failing to notice the look of indifference that lay on the face of Mboso...after all its not everyday you experience a spear through the neck.

Back in front of the montiors, the man was mid way through his conversation with the President.

"Yes Mr President...yes Mr President. Yes, that's right, all three operatives are down. Yes, yes we still have our man on the inside..."

He paused as the image on the fourth screen suddenly spun heavenwards before coming to a rest staring along the beach. A pair of bare dark-skinned feet the only object in view...then the fourth screen flicked to static, the label under the monitor simply said Johns.

"Mr President, I have some bad news. The fourth operative has just been compromised. No sir I don't know how he was discovered, but from the amount of blood I would say he was quite, quite compromised."

In the White House, the President replaced his handset on the receiver momentarily before picking it up again.  
"Yes this is the President of the United States, Put me through to President of France..."

Both the remaining advisors were startled by the unexpected gurgling from behind them. Turning to face Mboso, Mr James and Mr Jones began to stammer while looking down at the pool of blood slowly seeping towards them.  
"B...b...b...but Professor, we h...have been you're l...l...l...loyal servants"  
The Professor, who had crouched down and was drawing rude pictures in the sand, spoke in an almost absent-minded way.

"So, what if the door was eatable on the inside, but not outside?"


End file.
